Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
COLE
Marcus Webb:
IMPORTANT: Please come by my office this afternoon, re: the upcoming Hart meeting.
I stared at the timestamp, picturing him hunched over his keyboard at too damn early in the morning, either buried in administrative work or wrestling with insomnia. Neither scenario suggested good news awaited me.
Harper had left my place a few hours before that, her taillights disappearing down my street while I stood in the doorway watching.
I’d spent the rest of the night replaying every moment with her instead of sleeping, wondering if I’d read too much into her lingering kiss goodnight or the way she’d hesitated before leaving.
I knocked on Dr. Webb’s door after I’d finished my day. His gruff, “Come in,” sounded even more weathered than usual. He looked up when I settled into the chair across from his desk.
“Cole. Thanks for coming in.”
“You said it was important,” I replied, implying that I didn’t really have a choice.
“Indeed, it is.” He set the tablet down, folded his hands on top of it, the way people do when they’re about to say something you’re not going to like. “I wanted to touch base about Tuesday’s meeting. Make sure you’re ready.”
I shrugged, like there was nothing to it. “What’s to be ready for?”
“This meeting is critical. The Hart family has considerable influence with the Board, and we need to handle this delicately.”
I caught the word delicately. Honestly, all I saw was the same old boardroom politics, just with fancier names and a little more glass in the conference room. Webb wanted us walking on eggshells; I wasn’t sure why we couldn’t just walk in, confident that we were in the right.
Still, I got it. The Hart family had pull, and if we blew it, we’d feel it.
“Just remember, Dr. Vaughn. At this point, this isn’t about being right. It’s about being diplomatic.”
“I was right, though. The decision to operate was correct given the clinical presentation.”
“I know that. You know that.” Webb spread his hands in a gesture that was supposed to look reassuring but came off as placating.
“But Mrs. Hart doesn’t know that. She’s grieving.
She’s angry. She needs someone to help her make sense of what happened.
Help her understand that Mr. Greene’s death wasn’t due to negligence or poor judgment. ”
Webb’s voice took on an edge. “That’s all anyone is asking, Cole.”
“Is it, though?” I leaned in, resting my elbows on my knees. “Because it sounds like you’re asking me to fall on my sword. Apologize for not doing something I wouldn’t normally do.”
“No one is asking you to apologize, Cole.”
“Let’s get clear, then. What are you asking?”
Webb was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted into what I recognized as the tone he used when someone was being difficult.
“I’m asking you to be mindful of how you present yourself.
The family’s attorney is going to try to provoke you.
She’s going to ask pointed questions designed to make you defensive or appear arrogant.
I’m asking you to remain calm and professional and not give her ammunition. ”
“I can do that.”
“Can you?” Webb’s eyebrows rose. “Because I’ve seen you in meetings that don’t turn out friendly. You don’t suffer fools. You don’t hide your opinions. And right now, we need you to think carefully about how you come across.”
“So, don’t be the big, scary Black man in the room?”
“Believe it or not, I’m on your side.”
“It doesn’t feel like it, Dr. Webb. This lawyer is going to twist my words until I sound like the villain. And I’m supposed to just take it.”
Webb’s jaw flexed. I watched him recalibrate, searching for the right response.
“Look,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair.
“I’m not asking you to grovel or admit fault where none exists.
What I’m asking is that you remember that perception matters as much as reality in situations like this.
Mrs. Hart lost her grandfather. She’s looking for answers.
If we can’t provide them in a way that feels compassionate, she’s going to assume we’re hiding something. ”
Webb’s voice dropped lower, taking on the tone of someone sharing hard wisdom. “Cole, you’re a talented surgeon. You have a bright future. Don’t throw it away by being stubborn in one meeting.”
I stood. “If defending sound medical judgment makes me stubborn, then I guess that’s what I am.”
“Cole—”
“I wasn’t wrong. And I’m not going to pretend I was to make the Hart family feel better or to keep the Board happy or to protect the hospital’s donor relationships.” I moved to the door. “If that’s what you need from me, Dr. Webb, then we have a problem.”
“Sit down, son.”
I stopped, hand on the doorknob. “I’m not your son, Dr. Webb. And you might be the department head, but watch how you speak to me.”
Webb’s face went through several expressions—surprise, then something that might have been hurt, before settling into the careful neutrality he wore during difficult surgeries. We stood facing each other across his desk.
“Alright, listen,” he said. “I understand you’re frustrated.
I understand this feels unfair. But you need to understand something too—this isn’t about you.
It’s about the entire department. If the Hart family decides to make an issue of this, it doesn’t just affect you.
It affects our funding, our reputation, our ability to recruit top talent. ”
“So I should take one for the team.”
“We all have to be team players sometimes.” His hands pressed flat against the desk. “Do I think it’s fair that you’re being put in this position? No. Do I think the hospital should be backing you more forcefully? Yes. But that’s not the reality we’re dealing with.”
“What did they offer you?” I asked quietly.
Webb’s brown eyes blinked rapidly. “What?”
“To make sure I stay in line. What did they offer you? A bonus? A raise? More vacation? Or what did they threaten you with?”
“Cole, that’s out of line—”
“I know how this works. Administration never leaves anything to chance. They would have approached you, made sure you understood what’s at stake. Made sure you understood that your job is to manage me.”
Webb’s face went carefully blank. “No one offered me anything.”
“But they talked to you.”
The silence stretched long enough to be an answer.
“Legal?” I suggested. “Dr. Rice? Higher? Chairman, maybe?”
“There was a conversation about how to support you through this situation.”
“Right. Support me by making sure I don’t rock the boat, say all the right things, bend over for the rich folk so they’ll keep giving us money.”
Webb’s jaw worked. “Cole, you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”
“No, you’re making it simple when it shouldn’t be.” I pulled the door open. “Thanks for the prep session, Dr. Webb.”
“Dr. Vaughn—”
I walked out before he could finish.
The hallway was empty, just carpeted floors and closed doors with nameplates announcing the occupants’ names and titles. I took the stairs down instead of the elevator, needing the physical movement to burn off the anger building in my chest.
My office was nothing like Webb’s—no mahogany desk, no leather chairs, no view. Just a functional space with a computer, a filing cabinet, and a secondhand bookshelf I’d picked up from a resident who was moving across the country. But it was mine, and more importantly, it was private.
I closed the door, dropped into my desk chair, pulled up my VIP contact list and scrolled to a number. The call connected on the third ring.
“Cole! Caught me between meetings! Everything alright?”
My stepfather, Walter Ellis, had a voice that immediately eased some of the tension in my shoulders, even over the phone line. The Ellis Clinic specialized in executive health services and taught him how to navigate the intersection of medicine and money better than anyone I knew.
“Hey, Dad. You got a minute?”
“Always. What’s going on?”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles. “I need some advice. Might lean toward the legal area, actually.”
There was a pause. “Legal? Son…what’s happening?”
I gave him the abbreviated version of the story, starting with Earl Greene in the ER and ending with the upcoming meeting. Dad listened without interrupting, letting me get it all out before weighing in.
“And Dr. Webb’s direction is to capitulate?”
“Pretty much. Play nice, don’t make waves, help the grieving family understand that nobody did anything wrong—but if we did do something wrong, it wasn’t the hospital’s fault.”
“Which means they’re positioning you as expendable.”
“That’s my understanding.”
Dad was quiet for a long moment. I could picture him in his office, leaning back in an expensive leather desk chair, fingers steepled while he processed what I’d told him. “Have they told you that you need legal representation?”
“No. But Harp—someone suggested I shouldn’t answer questions without a representative present.”
“Someone…” Dad echoed, and there was an edge now, a flick of curiosity. “Does this someone work for the hospital?”
“Yes. The case came up through Risk Management.”
He didn’t say anything right away. I could feel him on the other end, the gears in his mind turning. “So someone from Risk Management is advising you? A Black surgeon in the middle of an investigation that involves donors?”
“…yeah.”
“Son.”
I tried to sidestep it. “Dad, I don’t—”
“Is she a Black woman?”
I paused. No point in pretending, no point in dressing it up as anything but what it was. Harper Sutton was gorgeous, brilliant, sharp as a scalpel—and yes, a Black woman. I was losing my head over her, fast.
“Yeah.”
A deep bellow of laughter sounded over the line. “Now it makes sense. Risk Management doesn’t stick their neck out for anybody, much less for one of us. She sounds special.”
“She is.”